man chuckled.
Angus frowned, turned, and blinked rapidly. Triplets? He had heard of them, of course, but they were rare. With orange eyes?
“I am Ortis,” they said in unison. There was no harmony or discord when they spoke together; their tone, their cadence, their words were perfectly timed, as if a single voice was approaching him from different directions. But it had none of the qualities of an echo.
“And I,” the armor clad one said, “am Hobart.”
“Angus,” Ortis said, ushering a saddled horse around the group. “Would you mind if we finish the introductions while we ride? We’re on our way to the Temple of Muff, and it is a matter of some—” he glanced behind them and one of his brothers continued without interruption “—urgency. We’ve already delayed much longer than we intended.”
“A little problem with my eyes,” Giorge said, smiling wistfully. “Fortunately, they recovered fairly quickly.”
“Glad to hear it,” Angus said without malice or regret.
“As were we,” Hobart agreed. “If he had not, our business with you would be quite different.”
Angus half-smiled and tilted his head. “It was a rather minor spell,” he said. “I could easily have thrown the one I cast last night at him instead.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Giorge said. “I’m not altogether fond of being roasted.” He chuckled, and then added, “But it was a most impressive display of your talents.”
“Yes,” Ortis said. “When we arrived last night, we were hesitant about offering you a place in our banner, and it dispelled our doubts.”
“I believe you are on your way to Hellsbreath, are you not?” Hobart asked.
“Yes,” Angus replied, a bit guarded. It was no surprise that they knew his destination; Billigan had said there were no other places to go to on the south road. Still….
“It’s a six day walk,” Hobart said. “We can make it in two and a half by horse.”
“We’d enjoy your companionship,” Giorge added. “Wizards often have the most curious stories to tell.”
“Lies, more like,” Hobart grumbled, glancing over his shoulder at the man slung across the saddle of the last horse. Even without having a clear view, Angus knew it was a street magician by the colorful patterns of his robe. “Judging by Teffles’ ill-fated performance.”
Ortis nodded. “Come with us, Angus. Allow us the opportunity to persuade you to join our banner.”
“Yes,” Hobart urged. “The journey will be much more interesting if you are with us.” He glanced at Giorge and grinned. “And much safer for Giorge.”
Giorge groaned, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.
Ortis smiled and asked, “What say you, Wizard?”
“I’ll travel to Hellsbreath with you on two conditions,” Angus said.
“Only two?” Hobart asked, raising his eyebrows and brightening a bit. “We shall endeavor to satisfy them, Wizard,” he said with a mock bow. “If they are but reasonable ones.”
Angus looked at the horse they offered—a brown colt that looked a bit skittish—and said. “First, you’ll have to teach me how to ride.”
“Ha!” Hobart cried. “Easy enough to do. Just climb into the saddle, put your feet in the stirrups, and hang on!”
“Now Hobart,” Giorge said. “Don’t make light of it. It may be that simple to you, but you were part of Tyr’s cavalry for how long?”
“Ten years,” Hobart replied, “as well you know.”
“Don’t you remember what it was like when you first rode?”
“Certainly,” Hobart readily agreed. “I climbed into the saddle, put my feet in the stirrups, and hung on.”
Ortis stifled his laughter and said, “Don’t mind them, Angus. We’ll teach you the basics before nightfall. But Hobart is mostly right in what he says.”
“I’ll help you up,” another Ortis said, handing him the reins and leaning down to offer him his arm.
“I think I can manage that much,” Angus said, fixing his left foot into the stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle. It took more of an effort than he had expected, but once he was atop the horse, he nestled into place as if it were a familiar old chair.
“We’ll take it at a slow walk until you get the hang of it,” Ortis said, taking the lead.
Hobart fell into place beside Angus and said, “I’ll take the outer edge,” he said. “No sense in you getting nervous.”
Giorge edged up on his other side, and they rode around the tent. Once past it, they moved closer to the upslope, and another Ortis fell into place several paces behind them, leading the steed carrying Teffles’ body. The last Ortis followed some distance further behind.
Once they were settled into a slow but steady rhythm, Hobart asked, “What is the second condition?”
“Tell me what a banner is,” he said, “and how Teffles met his end.”
“Why,” Hobart said, his voice mild, full of surprise. “I thought everyone in Tyr’s domain knew what a banner is.”
“I,” Angus said, then stopped. I must not tell them about my amnesia. He shook his head. “I spent my life cooped up in Voltari’s tower,” he said. “I don’t have much experience with the world.”
“You could have fooled me,” Giorge said, looking sidelong at him. “The way you reacted when I came to visit you was far from inexperienced.”
Angus ignored his speculative stare and said, “Voltari trained me well.”
“Not well enough,” Hobart said, “if he didn’t tell you about banners.”
“We were focused on other things,” Angus said, glancing at the still tender welt on his right palm.
“No matter,” Hobart said, smiling. “It is easy enough to explain. Simple, really. It is a long tradition handed down through King Tyr’s line. When a soldier rises through the ranks, he has to make choices. Does he stick with it or leave? If he rises high enough, King Tyr grants him land and a command of his own. When he dies, the land reverts back to the king, and a new commander is assigned to his ranks. It’s a very lucrative arrangement for the officer in question, since he gets the use of the land and whatever profits can be gained from it—after the king takes his cut, of course. Now, you have to be in Tyr’s army for twenty years to become eligible for the land grant—if one is available, that is. There are a limited number of them, and King Tyr is far too generous to confiscate lands for a new commission.”
“He hasn’t been tempted to, yet,” Giorge said. “There has always been a bit of a shortage of lifers to draw upon.”
“True,” Hobart conceded, leaning forward in his saddle to look past Angus. “But his line has a history of just treatment of their subjects, and his army would be hard-pressed to support him if he changed that policy.”
Giorge shrugged. “No sense arguing about it,” he said. “It’s not altogether important at the moment.”
Hobart shifted in his saddle and turned back to Angus. “Giorge is a bit too much of a free spirit,” he said. “He’s not at all fond of authority, even when the authority is his benefactor.”
“Not mine,” Giorge protested. “This is your banner. I’m just tagging along.”
Hobart sighed and shook his head. “You’ve been tagging along for four years,” he countered.
Giorge grinned and shrugged. “There’s always tomorrow,” he said.
Hobart ignored him and continued. “Most soldiers last a few years, maybe a bit longer. Some, like me, make it to ten. That’s when the first major decision needs to be made. If you continue past ten years—assuming there are positions for you in the ranks and the king doesn’t dismiss you—then you have to serve the next five years in The Borderlands.”
“The Borderlands?” Angus asked. “Like The Tween?”
Giorge chuckled. “The Tween is tame compared to The Borderlands. Nobody really worries about the mountain dwarves anymore. But the fishmen, now, they are a plague—and a deadly one at that.”
Hobart nodded. “The Borderlands run along the northern edge o
f the kingdom,” he said, “where the grasslands meet the swamp. That swamp is an unpleasant place. The stench is horrendous; it creeps into your nostrils and settles there, like the slow, constant torture of a toothache. There’s good reason why people call it the Death Swamps. Every harvest, the fishmen come out to raid the farms, and King Tyr has to send half his army to defend them.” Hobart paused for a moment, shook his head, and clenched his jaw. “It’s a rough assignment,” he continued. “A lot of soldiers die. A lot more fishmen do, but they just spawn replacements the next year and come back just as strong.”
“Is that why you left the army?” Angus asked.
Hobart glared at him. “It is not,” he said, his voice fiercely stoic, defensive. “I spent five years defending those farmers’ crops, and I would have gladly done five more. But that wasn’t what was in store for me. Soldiers who make it through ten years have two choices: leave or join a command that goes into the swamps to hunt out the fishmen. Over half of them die before their five years are up, and the rest have an even worse fate waiting for them. They get to babysit the caravans. They tell me it’s like walking through a river of lava one moment and sliding on ice the next. The Death Swamps is one of the most dangerous places you can go, and there isn’t any duty safer or more boring than guarding a caravan. Most of the survivors of The Borderlands only last one trip.”
“I see,” Angus said. “You didn’t like the odds.”
“No,” Hobart said, shaking his head. “A good soldier doesn’t worry about dying; they focus on staying alive.